Fading Away
by fbis.most.unwanted
Summary: Sherlock is injured while working a case, and his survival is bleak, which leaves John as the only one who can close the case. But can he solve this puzzle before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

Blood, that's all John can see. It's everywhere. _God, why is there so much blood?_ He takes off down the alley after the man in the ski mask, but to no avail –the man has already rounded the corner and is nearly at the end of the street. There's no way John will be able to catch him. So, chasing the man would be pointless.

John isn't even sure of exactly what just happened. After the gun went off, it's all a blur. John fired back, though he doesn't know if his bullet hit its mark. It had to have. If not, whose blood is this? John must have shot the man in the arm –or somewhere where it would have missed any vital organs and arteries.

But the man seemed fine. Whose blood is this?

"John," a hoarse voice washes over the doctor's ears. It is strained and barely reaches a volume above a loud whisper.

_Oh God. _John recognizes the voice. How could he not?

The doctor turns around, only to find Sherlock doubled over on the pavement, his hands covering a wound in his abdomen, though it doesn't stop the blood from flowing.

John rushes over to the detective, kneeling down beside him. Up close, John realizes how bad this is. Sherlock has already lost a dangerous amount of blood. His skin is sickly pale, and Sherlock is struggling to keep his eyes open. John can see the exhaustion beginning to take over.

"Sherlock," John applies pressure to the bullet wound when he sees the detective fading away. "Sherlock, stay with me. Don't close your eyes."

He can sense Sherlock's body growing weaker as the detective's head leans against John's shoulder.

"Come on, you've got to stay awake," John says, hoping to God that Sherlock was smart enough to tell the police where he was going. Time is running out.

This can't be happening. _Why _is this happening? This case is more than the average murder –Sherlock figured that out from the beginning, which is most likely why Sherlock decided to take the case.

"John, listen," it takes immense effort for Sherlock to get the words out. "The pictures… you have to look at the pictures."

"What? What pictures?" John questions. Pictures? John doesn't remember any pictures. What does that have to do with anything?

"What the hell happened?" DI Lestrade enters the alley, followed by Sgt. Donovan and a few other officers.

"I don't have time to explain," John begins, slightly relieved to have someone else here. This means Sherlock has a chance –it's miniscule, but it's a chance. "Someone call an ambulance."

In an instant, phones are pulled out and emergency numbers are called. John concentrates on the slow –but still somewhat steady- rising and falling of the detective's chest. It means that Sherlock is still breathing –it's buying him precious time, time that Sherlock might not have for much longer.

After what seems like an eternity, the wail of sirens echoes throughout the street. Medics make their way to John and Sherlock. They raise the detective's motionless body into the ambulance, rushing him off to the nearest hospital.

…

Several hours after Sherlock arrived at the hospital, John finally is able to see the detective. John shoves his hands into his pockets, not caring that they are still stained with blood –they won't stop shaking.

"Is he going to be all right?" John asks tentatively. _He'll be fine. Stop worrying._

The doctor leading John to Sherlock's room has not said a word in a few minutes. His face bears a grim shadow. "I don't know."

"What do you mean?" John has to speak slowly so his voice doesn't falter.

"See for yourself," a door is pushed open, and John is left alone with Sherlock. The lights are dim, the light from the windows casting shadows over the room.

There, in the bed, lies the still figure of Sherlock Holmes. The steady beeping of the life support machine fills the air, which hangs so heavily that it is almost stifling.

Sherlock is alive, but he is not here. From the look of it, the detective has slipped into a comatose state.

This all seems odd. The doctors said that Sherlock was lucky –the bullet had missed his major organs and arteries. Then, why is he unconscious?

"_Pictures. You have to look at the pictures."_

John knows that he's missing an important detail, but what? This must have something to do with the case.

John lowers himself onto a stool next to the hospital bed. "Sherlock?" He feels ridiculous. "They say people can still hear when they're like this." What is he doing? "If you can hear me, I need you to wake up."

John has to solve the case, but he doesn't even know where to start? He was really only helpful as someone Sherlock could talk to –occasionally, John would assist in one of Sherlock's breakthroughs, but he has never attempted to solve a case on his own.

"Earlier, you said that I need to look at the pictures," John says. He is aware that this is completely irrational –Sherlock can't talk back. "What are the pictures?"

John is not surprised when he receives no answer –he didn't expect to. A glance at his watch informs him that visiting hours are almost over. "Sherlock, I'm going to solve this, I promise."

…

For someone as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes, the man's notes are almost unreadable. Files and images and red strings joining information that is connected nearly cover the entire wall. The "pictures" Sherlock was talking about are mixed in among all the deductions he has made.

There doesn't seem to be anything off about the images –they depict people and buildings, nothing out of the ordinary.

John has not moved from his position in front of the wall –is this what Sherlock feels like? No, Sherlock actually _likes _this. The doctor can't even remember the last time he slept. Was it two days, three, four?

John's been looking at the bloody pictures –he's been looking for days. But there's nothing that could solve this case, not a damn thing.

What if John can't find it? What if Sherlock doesn't pull through because John couldn't figure this out?

Sherlock has saved John's life more than once, but John doesn't think he will be able to save the detective.

**Thanks for reading! I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave me a review and let me know how I did. Also, be sure to check out my new Sherlock story: _Words Are Knives_, and my Supernatural story: _The Man Who Lost His Wings_. **


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hasn't woken up yet, and it's starting to seem like he never will. The hope that once rained down upon the doctor in sheets has now faded away, leaving only one broken, fragile ray behind –the only thing John has to keep him going.

_What if he never wakes up? _

This sentence has tormented John with the knowledge that it isn't as implausible as it might have been not too long ago. Sherlock has to wake up. If he doesn't, John doesn't know how he'll take it.

John can barely keep his eyes open. Reluctantly, he allowed himself about ten hours of sleep, which started out as a one hour nap. He's been staring at these damn pictures for days –or has it been a week now?

There is nothing that could help Sherlock. Why did he tell John to look at them anyway? John has come to the realization that he can't do this alone. God, he never gave Sherlock enough credit for solving cases like this. The detective makes it appear so easy with the way he spouts off deductions and facts until the case is closed in a day or two, at most.

John is beginning to doubt that these are the right pictures –he even took them to Scotland Yard for the other detectives to examine, which proved to be useless.

If Sherlock knew what John is supposed to be looking for, why did he go to the alley? He had to know that whatever secret the pictures hide is dangerous enough to end his life –which is probably why he went looking in the first place, John sighs.

John can't give up now, because he knows that if he and Sherlock's positions were reversed, Sherlock would stop at nothing to ensure John's safety.

John made a promise, and he can't let Sherlock down.

His eyes fall back down to the table –John removed the pictures from the wall a few days ago. John discovers that he has found his motivation again. It was never gone, but now it is stronger than ever.

There, near the bottom of a building, is something John hadn't noticed before. It's blurry, so much so that it could be confused with a shadow.

The way his heartbeat abandons its steady rate and exchanges it for another –an equally steady rate, but racing with anticipation, nonetheless.

John takes the photo in his hand, and he makes his way to his laptop. After scanning the image, he zooms in on the faint smudge, though this action only causes the already blurry shadow to become even more distorted and pixelated.

However, when the sharpness of the picture is increased, the distorted, unrecognizable shape reveals itself.

It's a letter –an "A", to be exact. Is this the big clue –the one that will lead John to a dramatic epiphany, giving him a detailed explanation of what he must to save Sherlock?

John returns to the other pictures, praying that they will bear similar results. Now that he has some idea of what it is he's looking for, the clues seem to practically leap off of the page –an "O" embroidered on someone's bag, a "T" on a billboard (the rest of the word has been cut off).

And John can sense something else, too. Hope. That last broken ray has paved the way to unleash a flood of pure hope, and for the first time in a while, John can see the light of miracles once again. He knows that he can save the detective now.

But as hope comes, it also brings vulnerability. It makes us susceptible to the pain felt when it fades away.

It's not a surprise when a dagger slices John's hope, shattering the warm feelings of the positive outcomes, rather than dwelling on the worst case scenarios.

Each of the pictures is harboring a letter, as John soon discovers. And, with some time, he is able to arrange those letters into a word.

Ordinarily, this revelation would be cause for celebration, but that euphoria crumbles away the minute John sees what word Sherlock was meant to find.

To the average person, it presents itself as nothing more than a sequence of letters that forms a word, but that word has no meaning to them.

But to John, that word brings enough danger lurking with each letter for him to realize just how bleak Sherlock's chances of awakening truly are.

"MORIARTY"

**Thanks for reading, and thank you for all the positive feedback this story has received! Seeing reviews really make my day, and if hope you continue writing them. Be sure to check out my other Sherlock story, ****_Alone's All You Left Behind_****.**


	3. Chapter 3

The crisp night air floods John's lungs as he steps out of the cab, which he purposely had drop him off down the street from his actual destination. He couldn't keep himself still –eyes darting in all directions, quickened pace, nervously checking for any unwanted visitors.

There has to be someone watching John; it only makes sense. Someone must know by now that John has figured out the puzzle –well, part of it. Moriarty isn't stupid. He has to have somebody watching the doctor. Even if they have no intentions of intervening, Moriarty is the type that likes to be kept up to speed.

After a short walk, John reaches the door of the hospital. It's 2:00A.M. –way past visiting hours. No one in their right mind would let him in.

But John is not visiting.

He makes his way around to the back, where he finds a door. John knows where it leads –a small hallway next to the ICU. He remembers it from the last time he was here. There shouldn't be much security.

Not surprisingly, it is locked. John crouches down, his eyes now level with the keyhole. Slowly but surely, John begins to pick the lock –a skill Sherlock had insisted John learn. It takes a few minutes, but the door eventually swings inward. The doctor silently closes it behind him, beginning his journey down a dim corridor.

Several turns and hallways later, John has found the room he is looking for. Rows and rows of file cabinets line the walls and fill the room, all brimming with information about patients, medication, treatments.

Sherlock should be fine. He should be solving this case with John, not lying unconscious in a hospital bed. They said the bullet missed his vital organs. The worst of the detective's problems was blood loss, and that can easily be fixed. There is no reason for Sherlock to still be here.

Finally, John reaches the file cabinet which holds Sherlock's records. He thumbs through the other folders bearing last names beginning with "H", but Sherlock's file is not there. John checked and rechecked. There is no file belonging to Sherlock Holmes.

_Where is it? _

"Looking for something?" a familiar voice rings out from the dark corner of the room. John stiffens at the way the words carry something menacing with them as they slice the air.

The doctor spins around, giving himself a good view of the man standing behind him. A wide grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as he runs his fingers along a folder, gently caressing the name written hastily at the top.

"I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but I swear, if you-" John begins, but is silenced.

"Oh, save the threats," Moriarty strides across the floor. "I just came here to talk."

"Alright, talk," John's fingers close around his gun, keeping it fixed on Moriarty.

"Now, now, John, let's not get too hasty. Have you learned nothing from our first encounter?" Moriarty says. Almost as if on cue, a red dot appears on John's chest. Another one follows closely behind the first, taking residence on the doctor's forehead. More and more find their target, and John reluctantly lowers his weapon.

"I know what you did," John says coldly. "I figured it out. Now you tell me how to save Sherlock."

"Of course you do, but I don't want you to know _what _I did. That's boring," Moriarty brings himself inches away from the doctor. "I want you to _interest_ me, John. I know you can be interesting –thick, maybe, but still interesting."

"What are you getting at?" John asks.

"I want you to solve the puzzle," Moriarty whispers.

"I did," John persists. "I found the letters."

"But I don't care about what I did. You can find out _how_ I did it, but I want you to tell me _why _I did it," Moriarty says, his voice taking on a gleeful tone.

The file is slipped into John's hands. "Tell me why, John. Then, you can save him."

With that, Moriarty makes his way to the door, leaving John alone. "I'll be seeing you soon," he calls to the doctor.

John isn't sure what to do now. He solved the case, but now there's more. He can't do this. He isn't Sherlock.

John isn't upset, or even angry; he's scared out of his mind. Because John knows that Sherlock's life is essentially in his hands.

And John won't be able to save him this time.

**Thanks for reading. I hope you all like this chapter. Please leave a review! They make writing the story so much easier.**


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